


Scrub

by pastelfalcon



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Getting Together, M/M, Sam Wilson Has a Cold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2014-08-14
Packaged: 2018-02-13 04:12:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2136552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pastelfalcon/pseuds/pastelfalcon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam feels like shit and Steve *is* a shit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scrub

“I know you did not just do that,” says Sam angrily. Steve flinches back and drops his hand away from Sam’s cheek, the bulk of his weight leaving the edge of the bed so quickly that the mattress jostles Sam and his sea of used tissues as it springs back into shape.

“Sam,” Steve begins, his expression downright tortured, “I didn’t mean – I misunderstood some things,” he finishes lamely, shoulders slumping in self-deprecating defeat to match the bitter twist of his smile. “Wouldn’t be the first time,” he adds in a carefully crafted conversational tone, “I’m a real scrub at the whole flirting thing.”

“I know you did not just kiss my forehead to check my temperature,” Sam continues heatedly, unabated by Steve’s apology.

“I shoulda asked first,” Steve apologizes breathlessly, fitting his hands on his hips apprehensively as he looks everywhere but at Sam. “I shoulda made sure I wasn’t just getting it all mixed up in my head.”

“We chase your boy on a six month roadtrip,” Sam growls out, eyes flashing as his temper rises hot and fast, “Through deserts, through jungles, through freaky-ass sex dungeon lookin’ HYDRA labs, sleepin’ on the ground or in flea-infested motels, sewing up our own damn wounds, and you get all up in my face because on the way home I got a cold?”

Steve bites the inside of his cheek. “We didn’t have a thermometer and I thought I was being cute.”

Sam bobs his head angrily. “Aw, yeah, real’ cute, man. Adorable.”

“Look, I made a mistake,” Steve returns a little hotly, his face going red instead of pink, “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

“I got snot in my mustache, Steve!” Sam hollers, grabbing up the nearest depleted box of tissues and heaving it at the wall. The flimsy cardboard bounces to the floor. “I look deader than that skeleton crew we found back in Brazil!”

Steve’s eyebrows knit together in confused annoyance. “What?”

“I lay a goddamn roadmap of signals from Washington and damn-near back again and you wait until I look like the poor sucker in a contagious disease infomercial to follow ‘em?” Sam demands, furiously wiping at his runny nose with the back of his hand, his chest and shoulders heaving. “You’re damn right you’re a whatever the hell you just called yourself.”

“A scrub,” Steve mumbles, but his mouth is tugging up into a smile.

“No,” Sam growls immediately, flinging a handful of wrapped cough drops at the super soldier’s obnoxiously shaped upper body, “You keep your damn smiles to yourself, I don’t want to see another cute face outta you until I’m feeling awake enough to whoop your ass.” He sniffles noisily, grabbing a tissue to dab the smear off his arm when he realizes what he’d done a moment before, and goes back to glaring at the television. “And get me some more Nyquil, I deserve a damn nap, putting up with you for so long.”

Steve’s beaming when he quietly steps out of the room, leaving Sam to cough repeatedly while muttering about super villain origin stories and blonde-haired doritos. 


End file.
